Dinner
by thecarolinakid
Summary: Sherlock has an eating disorder. John helps him begin to recover. TW: eating disorders


We all know that Sherlock hardly eats. This is my take on it.

This is my first fanfic, and I haven't written fiction in years, but I think it turned out pretty well.

I really hope I conveyed what it's like having an eating disorder. If I've written something inaccurate enough as to be offensive, please tell me.

If you have an eating disorder, please, please get help. There are plenty of resources online if you don't feel comfortable talking with people you know.

Dinner

The stew was a creamy orange, with chunks of beef and potatoes poking to the surface. It sat, still steaming, in a plain white bowl on the kitchen table, which was devoid of clutter for the first time in weeks. John had carefully cleaned it earlier that day before placing the bowl slightly below the center of the table, so that it was directly in the eyeline of the gaunt man now sitting there.

Sherlock's brow was furrowed as he stared at the stew. His eyes flicked up to John, who was standing across from him, then back down to the stew, then back at John, then back to the stew again. They lingered on the dish, observing it with a scrutiny usually reserved for crime scenes, before settling on John. "I don't want it," Sherlock said.

He hadn't eaten for three days.

John knew they had a problem.

* * *

><p>He couldn't say there was an exact moment when he realized Sherlock had trouble with food. It wasn't that John didn't notice his erratic eating habits, but they didn't worry him. After all, everything else about Sherlock was odd, so why wouldn't the way he ate be? Besides, Sherlock was so single-minded while on a case that John would be surprised if he actually did remember to eat.<p>

It was when they were between cases that John began to see warning signs. Sherlock's only fixed meal was breakfast - a slice of buttered toast and tea. Most other meals were flatly refused, either because he was busy with experiments or because his boredom had made him argumentative. Every few days, Sherlock would eat a small dinner and then go bounding back to his latest project, leaving John to clean the dishes.

As the weeks passed, these behaviors began to worry John more and more. Other than the occasional feast courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock barely ate, and it showed. John attempted to bring up the subject several times, but Sherlock always brushed it off. "I've managed to avoid starving to death so far," he would say, "So I hardly see a problem. Now help me find a case." And John would sigh and move on.

But now, John couldn't ignore it any longer. Ever since they had faced off against Moriarty at the pool, Sherlock had gotten worse. He wouldn't eat anything at all for days on end, and when he did, his meals were less substantial then before. So when he left the house without a word one day, as he was prone to do, John used the opportunity to set up for what he knew would be an unpleasant confrontation. When Sherlock walked in late that night, John was ready with the stew.

* * *

><p>"I don't want it."<p>

John looked directly at him. "And why not?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten in three days, that can't be true."

"Well it is. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed." He started to walk away when John's sharp voice cut him off. "No, no, what we're going to do, Sherlock, is sit here and have a talk about why you have a problem with food."

Sherlock abruptly stopped walking. "I don't have any problem with food," he said without turning to look at John. "All right then," said John. He moved to where Sherlock was standing and turned him to face the table. "Have a bite to eat. It's your favorite dish, right? Go on."

Sherlock glanced down at the floor, avoiding John's gaze. "I'm not hungry," he mumbled. John shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I'm sure you know how much nutrition a human body needs. Eating now is the most logical thing to do."

"But I'm not-"

"You still need to eat."

"Tomorrow I can-"

"No. Now."

"I don't want to-"

"Why not, Sherlock? What's wrong? Look, if there's some sort of problem, you can talk-"

"I don't have any problem with food!" Sherlock slammed his fists on the table. His face was twisted, more with desperation than anger. "I don't have a problem, my eating is fine, just leave me alone!" He stormed into the living room and jumped onto his chair, raised his knees up and buried his face in them.

John walked over to the couch, saying nothing. There was a long pause before he took a deep breath and said, "Sherlock, you-"

Sherlock cut him off. "I hated meals with my family. Hated them." He didn't look up. "Everybody staring, looking at every bite you eat- I couldn't stand it. So I began skipping meals." He shifted his position slightly so that he was looking at the wall. "It worked better that way. Digestion slows down my thinking. And I can't slow down my thinking, I'm _nothing_ without my brain. My body is just a burden to me, something to be dealt with. And I can deal with it just fine." He buried his head back into his knees and was silent.

John thought for a few minutes before he spoke. He wanted to choose his words carefully. "Sherlock, we both know that's not true." Sherlock looked up, startled. He opened his mouth to say something, but John stopped him. "No, let me talk. This isn't about numbing your body. If you wanted to do that, you'd use drugs. Yes, yes, I know you're clean, let me finish. What I think, Sherlock, is that the world scares you, far more than you'd like to admit. You don't understand why people work the way that they do, and that makes you feel as if you don't have control. You feel like you can't control much of anything, but one of the things you can control is what you eat."

John got up and went to stand behind Sherlock's chair. He gently placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "But you're not controlling it anymore. It's controlling you now, and you don't know how to stop it."

Sherlock's shoulders tensed beneath John's hands. His voice was choked as he spoke. "I don't know what you're talking about." John didn't say anything. "I'm in control. I can handle things just fine. I'm... I'm in..." His shoulders slumped, defeated. He looked up at John and said in a near whisper, "John, what do I do?"

John went back to the couch. "You let me help you. I'm a doctor. This isn't the first time I've seen this sort of thing. We'll take it slowly, plan regular meals, count calories, that sort of thing. It's a gradual process. I won't make you do anything too big at first." Sherlock looked relieved and worried at the same time. John walked over to him and tugged him up from his chair. "But Sherlock, you really do need to eat tonight."

John led Sherlock into the kitchen. They stopped a few feet away from the table, where the bowl of stew was still warm. Sherlock gazed at it, almost as if transfixed. John let him stand there for a minute, and then went around to sit in one of the chairs. "So," he gestured at the stew, "Dinner?"

The smallest of smiles appeared on Sherlock's face as he sat down and grabbed a spoon. "Starving," he said, and began to eat.


End file.
